


Kittyhawke

by CatgirlTheCrazy



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Animal Transformation, Cats, F/M, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 15:23:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8850148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatgirlTheCrazy/pseuds/CatgirlTheCrazy
Summary: Hawke gets turned into a cat. Anders has to look after her until she changes back. Sillyfluff ensues.





	

It was late. What little sun made it into Darktown had long since disappeared. The night had been blessedly free of patients, and Anders was taking advantage of the quiet to write.

_In the Circles, mages may not know the freedom of walking on grass, of wandering the world, of holding their children, of falling in love..._

He smiled a bitter smile at that last one. The Circle had twice torn love from him. First when Karl was sent to Kirkwall. Then again when it had made Karl Tranquil. Even now that he had been free of the Circle for years, the twin burdens of his cause and the future Calling made love impossible for him.

A sudden image of dark, close-cropped hair, olive skin, and green eyes dancing with laughter dominated his mind. Anders shut his eyes, as if that could shut out the images in his mind. Wanting what he couldn't have did him no good.

Something soft butted his ankle, distracting him. He looked down, and saw the the most beautiful tortoiseshell cat he'd ever seen. “Why hello there,” Anders murmured softly, glad for the distraction. He held out a hand for her— tortoiseshells were usually hers— to smell. The cat sniffed curiously, then rubbed her head against his leg. He started scratching behind her ears, grinning at the atavistic pleasure of hearing her purr. “Aren't you a beauty?” he murmured.

The cat was eying his lap speculatively, when someone knocked loudly at the door. “Please don't go,” he whispered at the cat as he got up. He hoped whoever it was wouldn't take long.

It turned out to be Isabela. She didn't appear to be injured or fainting with illness, so Anders scowled at her. “This couldn't have waited until morning?”

“I'm looking for Hawke,” she answered.

Anders frowned. “Hawke? Why, is she hurt?”

“Not exactly. We were at the Black Emporium today—”

Anders groaned. “Again? Didn't you learn your lesson last time?” The last time had involved Isabela purchasing an extremely _oblong_ totem and sticking it somewhere it was almost certainly never meant to go. There were some things that even healing magic couldn't fix— only raw skill and effort.

Isabela snorted. “Of course we did, we were only looking this time, but Hawke was playing with that funny mirror there, and— Oh look, there she is.”

Anders turned in the the direction Isabela was looking and frowned. “Where? I just see a cat.”

Isabela grinned. “Exactly.”

* * *

“You're saying Hawke _is_ the cat?” Anders stared dumbfounded at the feline batting at the bit of string Isabela was holding.

“That's right.”

“You're… You're sure?”

“I told you: one minute she's playing with that mirror, next minute, poof! There's a cat in a puddle of robes. And then she bolted.”

Anders opened his mouth, then closed it. “And you're sure this is the same cat?”

“Course I'm sure. Look at these markings.” Isabela indicated a reddish blotch on the cat's nose. If Anders squinted, it almost resembled the red stripe Hawke sometimes painted on her nose as war paint. And the eyes were the right shade of muddy green.

“I suppose….” Anders said slowly.

“Hey, Hawke, meow twice if it's you,” Isabela said sharply. The cat gave her an annoyed look, then started licking her paw. Isabela frowned. “Well that's unhelpful.”

“She may not remember she's human,” Anders said, remembering a text he'd read at the Circle. “It's works like that sometimes with involuntary shapeshifters.”

“Well she clearly remembers _some_ things,” Isabela said with a significant eyebrow waggle.

“And what's that supposed to mean?”

Isabela gave him a pitying look. “Anders, the Black Emporium is halfway across the city. Hawke came _straight here._ ”

Anders shifted in his seat. “Well, Leandra doesn't like cats, and Hawke knows I do, so maybe—”

Isabela laughed. “That vow of celibacy must be rotting your brain.”

“It's not a vow of—”

Isabela gave him a pitying look. “Anders, please, I've played Wicked Grace with you. Hawke's not been subtle, and you're crap at bluffing. The only reason you’re not neck deep in that shit is because you’ve convinced yourself that your cause and relationships don't mix. You're not letting the cause down by allowing yourself some happiness.”

Anders rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Can we please not talk about this?” He’d spent enough time with Fenris and Sebastian to know a hopeless argument when he saw it.

Isabela shrugged. “Alright, fine.” She leaned back in her chair. “So you’re the mage here. How do we de-kittify our fearless leader?”

Anders leaned down, scratching under the cat’s chin as he gently felt her with his magic. The cat— Hawke, he supposed— sneezed, but kept purring. He could still feel traces of strange, unfamiliar magic clinging to her like water to skin, but it was fading steadily. Anders had no idea what sort of unholy hocus-pocus the Black Emporium contained, but all magic had to follow some basic rules, be it Circle or Dalish or Tevinter or Qunari. Generations of parents might like to tell tales of evil swamp witches turning naughty children into toads, but the truth was that transfiguration was actually incredibly difficult. It was the nature of transformed objects to want to revert back to their true shape. Most transfiguration spells he’d read about needed to be continuously reapplied to keep the transformed object from reverting. This was no exception. Probably.

“I think…” he said, drawing the words out slowly, “that this might wear out on its own in a day or two.”

Isabela raised an eyebrow. “Might?”

Anders shrugged. “It _is_ the Black Emporium. For all we know she might sprout horns and breathe fire any minute.”

Isabela grinned. “If she does that I’m charging for tickets.”

Anders gave her a pained look. “She’s our friend, not a circus freak.”

“Oh fine.” Isabela got up and turned to go with a backwards wave. “I’ll be at the Hanged Man if you need me.”

“What? How can you be _leaving_ when Hawke’s like this?”

Isabela shrugged. “You said it yourself, Sparklefingers: you’re the cat person in this group, not me. If the spell doesn’t wear off and you need to shake down Xenon for a solution, come find me. Otherwise, there’s a barmaid’s tits with my name on them.” She left.

Anders sighed and rubbed his temples. He looked down. At some point, the Hawke-cat had disappeared and returned with a dead rat almost bigger than her head. She set it down at his feet and looked at him expectantly. “A trophy! How lovely,” he said with false cheer. “Let me find a place for that.” His years as a healer in the most squalid slum Thedas had ever seen had thoroughly cured him of all squeamishness, but dead things still brought disease. After discreetly disposing of the rat, Anders went around sealing all the doors and windows. If Hawke bolted, he didn't want to have to go hunting through Darktown for her.

Yawning, he started to get ready for bed. Using some spare blankets and his coat, Anders made what he hoped was a suitably appealing bed for a cat. “That's for you,” he said, pointing. “See, nice and warm.” Hawke sniffed the makeshift bed skeptically. She seemed to settle down in it, but when Anders climbed under his own blankets, he felt a small weight leap into the bed and curl up on his stomach.

Halfway to the Fade already, Anders reached out to touch the small furry body. He smiled, feeling her purr more through his bones than hearing it through his ears. He had a cat in his bed. Something was profoundly right in the world.

* * *

The first thing Anders was aware of was weight draped over him. Blinking wearily in the dim morning light, he saw soft, dark hair. Hair, not fur. Instantly he was wide awake.

Hawke was human again. She was naked. She was lying on top of him. Nothing between them but his drawers and a thin blanket.

Two thoughts jostled for attention in his brain. One was that Hawke had to be freezing in the chill winter air. The other was that Hawke was _naked_ and _in his bed_ . Hawke grunted and squirmed, almost as if she was trying to burrow into him for more warmth. Anders groaned as she rubbed up against his burgeoning erection. Sweet Maker, her lips were _right_ there, all he had to do was sit up, tilt her face up, lean in…

**_No._ **

Anders didn't need Justice to tell him why taking advantage of a sleeping person was wrong, much less a friend. Instead, he reached out a hand and gently shook her. “Hawke? You need to wake up.”

“'m?” Hawke scrunched her face and opened her eyes. Then they went wide. “Maker’s breath, Anders I'm so sorry!” She sat bolt upright with a gasp. Anders got an eyeful of some of the shapeliest breasts he'd ever seen before he looked away, feeling his face turn red. Andraste’s knickers, those were going to haunt his fantasies for a very long time. He heard Hawke swear, and scramble off the bed.

After a minute, she asked, “Anders, where are my clothes?”

Anders blinked. It was a good question. “Um. They might be at the Black Emporium, unless Isabela has them.”

“The Black Emporium?” She sounded genuinely bewildered.

“Yes. Don't you remember?”

“I… _do_ remember being there with Bela. Then… fur? I think I was dreaming. Then I was here.” Naked. And in his bed. That thought kept forcing its way to the front of his brain. Still very determinedly not looking at her, he handed over his shirt. “It’s safe to look now,” she said after a minute. He dared a look. ‘Safe’ was a relative designation. He was taller than her, certainly, so the shirt came well below her hips. But Anders was also, as Varric liked to say, a scrawny bastard, whereas Hawke was broad and stocky. The shirt clung closely to her generous curves, leaving very little to the imagination.

He swallowed, trying to remember the topic at hand. Hawke shook her head, as if trying to rid it of something. “Sweet Maker, was I really a _cat?_ ”

“Um. Yes. Don’t ask me how, Isabela just said something about a mirror.”

“Right. The mirror. Knew it had a funny aura.” Hawke sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “A cat. Andraste’s flaming sword, who else knows?”

“Just me and Isabela. But she was going to the Hanged Man when she left. She might have told Varric.”

Hawke threw up her hands. “In which case half Kirkwall knows by now. Perfect.”

“It probably won't be the strangest story Varric has ever told about you.” Anders winced as the words came out. “That… sounded more reassuring in my head.”

Hawke laughed. “Well, credit for trying. Thank you.” She rubbed the back of her head. “And thank you for looking after me. You know, while I was a cat.”

“Anytime.” It occurred to him that that was a somewhat odd thing to say, given that your best friend and not-so-secret crush turning into a feline was not an everyday occurrence. It seemed awkward to point that out, though.

The silence stretched between them.

“Can I ask something weird?” She said suddenly.

“Sure,” he said before he could think better of it.

“Do you like me?” She grimaced. “Oh bullocks, that sounded awkward. What I mean to say is…” She looked at him, then abruptly looked away, running her fingers through her short hair. “I care about you. A lot. I know I've been forward, and half the time I think you might feel the same, but then...” She shrugged. “If you want me to stop, I won't say anything more about it.”

Anders breath caught. This was it. All he had to do was say no, he didn't feel that way, and it would be over. He opened his mouth to say the words. “My work is dangerous. If you got hurt…”

Hawke laughed. It sounded like a too-tightly wound lute string. “Anders, we fought crazed elven terrorists last week, and Chantry zealots the week before that. _Kirkwall_ is dangerous. At least let me do something more useful than be the Viscount’s errand girl.” She took a step toward him. “Let me share the danger.”

Anders voice caught. He just had to say no, and it would be over. Just one word. Not more than a monosyllable. _You're not letting the cause down by allowing yourself some happiness._ He closed his eyes. Just say the word. “I love you.” It was barely more than a rasp.

He heard Hawke's sharp intake of breath somewhere nearby. “C- come again?”

He risked looking at her. Her eyes were wide and staring right at him. He couldn't make his throat work. So he sprang out of bed, closed the remaining gap, and crushed his lips to hers.

She was enough shorter than him that he had to lift her slightly to make it work. She emitted a muffled squeak and scrabbled at his back, trying to get her balance. Anders misinterpreted the motion, and pulled back with a concerned frown. “Sorry, was that too—”

He didn't get to finish. Hawke found her footing and pulled him back in for another leg-melting kiss.  As they stumbled backwards in the general direction of the cot, Anders found himself thinking that the Black Emporium had its uses after all. Then Hawke pushed him onto the bed, and he didn't think about much after that.


End file.
